


Every Night I Save You

by fizzyblogic (phizzle)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Fandom Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-29
Updated: 2007-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/fizzyblogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sort-of fusion with Buffy, but boys can also be Slayers. Ryan's the Slayer, Jon's his Watcher. Same 'verse as From the Watcher's Diaries, 1765.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Night I Save You

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by laurelcrowned, extra hand-holding and help from sobota &amp; violin_road.

In a sewer under Las Vegas, a boy was running. He'd been gathering speed for fifteen minutes, but the footsteps behind him didn't seem to be echoing any further away; if anything, they sounded nearer. He checked the alcoves as they flashed past and counted until he was sure the main access was the next one. He pushed harder for those extra steps, and swung around sharply when he saw the wall curve; he grasped for the ladder and hauled himself up, momentum carrying him the first few rungs.

He heard muffled cursing behind him when he was half way up, and desperately strained harder. His muscles were starting to feel like protesting, but he forced himself higher, faster, touched metal above his head and hefted all his weight behind both hands, pushing sharply upwards. The manhole cover lifted, and he threw it to one side, pulling himself out by the wrists and standing on the ground, breathing fresh night air. He just had time to kick the manhole cover back into place and start running before the first head appeared.

He heard the clatter behind him as he ran, and dodged around a corner in the darkness. He kicked over two garbage cans, careful not to disturb the one that housed a stray cat, two glinting eyes watching him as he pelted past. It shrank back a second later as the shadows followed, quieter and almost as fast.

He ran into an alley, pulling at his sleeve. The footsteps behind him had almost caught up, and a low laugh broke the air. "You can't run forever," came a voice from right behind him; and before it could say anything else, he put one foot low on the wall and used it to lever himself into a spin. The kick connected, a solid hit to the chest, and he landed on that foot and raised the other, poised to knock against knees; he ducked a punch and jerked his hand out of his sleeve, clutching a stake. He aimed for the heart, and leaned back to avoid getting the explosion of dust up his nose and down his throat.

The second vampire stared at him for a second, and he span, kicked, and staked it, ducking the aborted punch, or lunge; whatever it had been trying to do, it was cut off, and in the split second before it dusted, he thought it might try to strangle him.

He leaned back against the wall, panting, clutching hard at his stake. There was a movement in the shadows; he tensed, ready to run again, tightening his grip.

Someone stepped into a pool of half-light. "Are there any more?" The voice was sure, but quiet. Definitely human. He relaxed slightly.

"No."

"You – are the Slayer, right? Ryan?"

"You know I am. You're not a demon, so I'm guessing you're Council."

A nod. "I'm your new Watcher. Jon – Walker."

Ryan slid his stake back into his sleeve. "Welcome to Vegas. I have – something for you, back at my … uh, my place. Come on." He left the alley, hearing Jon fall into step beside him after a couple of moments' hesitation.

It wasn't far, but Ryan kept his eyes and ears open. Jon didn't say anything, and neither did he, until they reached what had been his apartment. He held the blackened door open for Jon to step inside; which he did, eyes wide. "What _happened_ here?" he asked.

Ryan followed him in and tried not to look too hard at the charred walls. "Demon. You heard what happened to my last Watcher, right?"

"Uh." Jon shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, we heard."

"Wait here." Ryan picked his way over the remnants of the demon's rib cage (the parts he hadn't managed to clean up, no matter how hard he tried) and into what had been his bedroom. He edged around the sleeping bag and crouched over the box set on the one clean patch of floor, lifting the lid and digging in it. He pulled out a slim notebook and straightened up.

Jon was standing in the doorway. He looked aghast. "You still _live_ here?"

Ryan shrugged. "I don't have anywhere else to go." He held the notebook out. "Here. His last diary, I – I finished the last entry, so. He sent the rest to the Council, I think."

Jon took the diary. "He did, yeah, I have them. Thanks." He looked around at the walls, the window that was half coming out of its frame, the lingering smell that nothing could quite dissipate. "You can't live here, Ryan."

"I told you. I don't have anywhere else to go."

"Yes you fucking do." Jon took a step closer. "Come stay with me. I'd say it's a mess right now, with the boxes everywhere, but seriously, Ryan, at least I have _walls_. And a spare room. And." He paused and looked around again. "God, Ryan, _walls_. You know, those things that keep vampires out."

"They still can't come in uninvited," Ryan reminded him. "I'm okay here."

"Bullshit you are," Jon rolled his eyes. "Come with me. Now. No Slayer of _mine_ is going to live in a place like this, Jesus, you're open to any kind of attack."

"I can take care of myself," Ryan said, but he hadn't said no. He began rolling up his sleeping bag.

"I'm not questioning that." Jon watched him for a second. "So that's a yes, then?"

Ryan looked up. "Yes. Thanks." He almost smiled.

"Can I – carry anything, or – I _know_ you can take care of yourself," he added before Ryan could speak, "I'm being _polite_."

Ryan handed him the box. "Thanks," he repeated.

"You know, we are going to have to work on your people skills," Jon said. Ryan grabbed a bag from the corner of the room and checked it one last time. "You have everything?" Ryan nodded. Jon stared at him. "Really, this is all you own?"

Ryan shrugged. "Should I have more? Most of it's weapons."

Jon was still staring at him. "How old are you, Ryan?"

Ryan shrugged again. "Nineteen."

Jon finally looked away. "Come on," he said, and led Ryan out, past the charred shape of claws and teeth and that fucking smell, and into the night.

*

"What do you mean, they haven't come back?"

"I mean, they haven't come back."

"Are you being smart with me, Lewis? Because if you are, I might need to remind you what happens to lackeys who get smart with me."

"No, sire."

"No sire what?"

"No, sire, I am not getting smart with you. I apologise, sire. But they have not returned, and it's almost sunrise."

"I'm _aware_ of the time, Lewis –"

"Brendon?"

He turned. "Spencer, can't you see I'm berating a lackey? Don't _interrupt_ me when I'm berating a lackey."

Spencer smirked. "Sorry to interrupt, _sire_, but James just got back from the tunnels, said the Slayer killed the other two."

"Fuck." Brendon slumped. "Why does he always have to _do that_?" He pouted intently at his belly button for a good three seconds before Lewis cleared his throat. Brendon looked up. "Oh, I'm not in the mood now. Spencer, berate him, okay? I'm going to find someone to eat."

Lewis looked nervously at Spencer.

"Oh, and Spence?" Brendon added as he got up. "We really should kill that Slayer."

Spencer rolled his eyes. "That's what you've been saying for a _year_, Brendon. He keeps killing our lackeys, remember?" Brendon waved a hand dismissively.

"Whatever, maybe it's time _we_ go after him."

Spencer's face darkened. His teeth glinted in the candlelight. "He thinks I'm dead. I'd like to keep it that way."

"What, no big reunion for the high school sweethearts?" Brendon leaned close, lips puckered. Spencer smacked him away. "Oh come on, Spence. Don't tell me you don't want to kill him." Brendon leaned closer still, and Spencer hadn't quite stopped expecting breath to tickle on his neck at this proximity. "Bite into his skin, drink that Slayer blood right out of his veins. Open yours, make him drink. Make him one of us." Spencer said nothing. Brendon licked his lips and smirked. "Think about it, Spencer."

The movement was almost too fast, would have caught Brendon off-guard but for the fact that he knew Spencer so well now. Spencer slammed him against the wall, and a painting on it rattled a few feet away. Brendon wriggled into a more comfortable position, pinned.

"Careful, baby, don't hurt the artwork," he purred. Spencer said nothing. He pushed his forearm flat across Brendon's clavicle, pushed hard, maybe enough for it to bruise. Brendon bit his lip and tilted his head back. "Little harder," he murmured, and Spencer let go.

"Fuck you," he said, disappearing down the stairs again. Brendon glanced over at Lewis.

"Get back to work," he said. Lewis ducked his head and scuttled out of the room. Brendon stayed where he was, pressing his back against the wall and feeling the ghost of pressure on his chest.

*

There was no bed in the spare room yet, so Ryan slept on the couch that night. He woke up to see sunlight streaming in at the window and Jon standing over him with a mug of coffee.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. It's almost noon."

Ryan stretched, and struggled into a seated position. He took the coffee gratefully. "Thanks, Walker."

"Ryan, you're sleeping in my spare room – or, you will be, when I've put the bed in – and I made you coffee and pancakes. Call me Jon, okay?"

He decided to try out a smile. His muscles almost remembered how to. "Thanks, Jon." His sleep-clogged brain began to unfurl. "Wait, did you say pancakes?"

Jon smiled and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a plate piled high. "I kind of made a lot. Figured you might not have got a whole lot to eat lately, and hey, Slayers need their energy food, right?"

"Right." Ryan tried not to think about how hungry he was, just gulped at his breakfast. Jon watched him fork pancakes and swallow coffee for a few moments.

"You're safe here, you know," he said, when Ryan had demolished his food. "I – there's a couple enchantments on this place. No demon or vampire can find it, or get in. So. You're safe here."

Ryan looked at him steadily. "Council know about that?"

Jon shifted. "Kind of."

Ryan nodded. "Okay. And – thanks. You know. Again."

"Hey, that's what I'm here for. I keep you alive and fighting, you keep innocent people from getting eaten by monsters." Jon threw him a smile and got up, taking Ryan's plate and mug back to the kitchen. "I know where you were with weapons training," he called in, "so we can pick up where – where your last Watcher left off." He reappeared in the room. "After you have a shower. And tell me about those vampires last night and what they wanted."

Ryan shrugged. "That part's easy. I don't know, besides killing me."

"They didn't – say anything? How old were they? Did they seem to be working as a team, for any purpose?"

"They weren't overly verbose," Ryan looked at him, steady. "Seemed pretty young, maybe a few decades dead. And, no, killing me seemed like their main objective." He shrugged. "I'm the Slayer, kind of makes me a target."

"Were they sent by anybody?"

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Well, they didn't leave a card."

"Right. Yeah." Jon nodded. "I guess they wouldn't."

"They tend not to." Ryan stood up. "You said something about a shower?"

"Oh – yes, sure. I, uh, I put some towels out for you, the blue ones."

"Okay. Thanks."

Jon listened to the hiss of the shower for a few moments when it started up, one hand tapping absently at the cover of the notebook Ryan had given him. He caught himself staring at one spot in the wall, shook his head vigorously, and opened up the book.

_5th May. Ryan has made advancement with the amended quarterstaff. He shows extraordinary dexterity for one so young – as all good Slayers must. Tonight's patrol resulted in three vampire kills, unusually high for the time of year. I suggested it might be the weather; Ryan seemed noncommittal. We shall continue training with the crossbow tomorrow._

It was pretty much like all the other diaries. Jon read to the end, the last half of the book still blank. The final entry was in slanting handwriting that was a little difficult to read after the loops and lines of the rest of it.

_August 28. A demon attacked us at my apartment. It was probably the one I fought three days ago, it was hurt but got away and we hadn't found it in the books. It must have tracked me or something, because it found me. Dale was at my place, the demon caught us unawares and set fire to the building. I think it was trying to smoke us out, but it got trapped inside with us. It had a scaly hide and red eyes, horns, and some kind of slime that smelled disgusting. I couldn't get a sword through its hide, and while fighting it it broke my arm and both my legs in two places. I could barely breathe with the smoke, but I saw it pick Dale up and kill him. I managed to behead the demon with the largest axe, but the blade came out tarnished and bent. It seemed to me like a mixed breed, I haven't seen a demon like it before._

The diary ended. Jon sat back and blinked, realising that the shower had stopped and Ryan was standing in front of him.

"You read it?" he said, fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves.

"I'm so sorry," Jon offered. He had to clear his throat to get the sounds out.

Ryan sat opposite him at the table. "Do you know what kind of demon it was?"

"Yes. The, uh, the Council did some research, based on your description when you called – it was a cross-breed, like you thought. Looks like someone was getting creative."

"Right." Ryan was still fiddling with his sleeves.

"You're okay here," Jon said, again. "You're safe."

"I know." He sat slightly hunched over. "So, you want to start on the weapons training? My – I was pretty much just practicing, you know, using what's to hand. And I have a couple crossbows."

"Why don't we start off with the quarterstaff? I've never, uh," Jon partially smiled at him, sheepish, "trained with a Slayer before."

Ryan stood up. "Okay. I've got mine, but it's got like, a couple blades in the ends. Maybe start with a normal one, if you have some?"

"Right – unpacking. Yeah. No, I do have some, they're just, uh." Jon looked around at the room; most of the floor and all of the available surfaces were covered in boxes, some with lids open, some still taped up.

"Why don't I help you find them?" Ryan was smiling at him. Or, near enough to be counted a smile.

"Thanks," Jon deflated. He stood up, and reached for the nearest box. "I'm pretty sure I put the weapons somewhere near the blender. Might not have been the best choice," he reflected, hefting out three saucepans.

Ryan shrugged. "I used a blender to cut a demon's hand off once. Counts as a weapon," he said absently, ripping the tape off a box.

"I – you cut off – you know what, never mind. I think I read that part."

"Probably." Ryan looked up and didn't seem so tense, suddenly. "You know, I have a sacred duty, a birthright to kill vampires and save innocent people." He held up a book. "I don't think I'm really meant to use my Slayer strength to unpack The Complete Encyclopaedia Of Music."

"But," Jon pointed out, "you're a lot stronger than me, and therefore, you can actually lift that thing."

Ryan set the book on the table like it was made of feathers; Jon could almost hear the wood groan. "You only want me around for my superpowers," Ryan said, and it sounded like he was teasing him. Jon snorted.

"My table doesn't like your superpowers. Put that book somewhere it won't break anything, like, I don't know. Is anything here made of concrete?"

Ryan laughed. The sound was sudden, and nice, Jon thought. _People should laugh more often. Especially people like us_, he wanted to say, but he didn't. Instead he pulled out a mixing bowl and a cookbook. "Ooh, axe," Ryan exclaimed. "And seriously, you have no idea how to pack."

"You know, my mother always tells me the exact same thing," Jon grinned at him, and Ryan laughed again, softer this time. Jon smiled into the box and shifted aside two wooden spoons and a whisk to yank out a talisman. He threw it to Ryan, who caught it reflexively. "Here, it's for protection. Plus, you keep it in your pocket and your aim is always true."

"It is anyway, but thanks." Ryan pocketed the talisman and they carried on unpacking.

*

"Spencer, I'm bored."

"Brendon, you're _always_ bored." Spencer didn't look up, just continued reading. "Go play with the prisoner or something."

"He died. We need to get a new one." Brendon was pouting, and Spencer didn't need to look up to know it.

"You are such a fucking baby." He marked his page and finally did look up. "When was the last time you had a pet, anyway?"

"They're not _pets_, Spencer, don't call them that." Brendon had stopped pouting, fast. Spencer held back the smile.

"Okay, go torture a lackey or something." He made to turn back to his book.

"They're no fun, they just fawn and give in. I want someone who'll fight back."

Spencer's head snapped up again. "You either mean one of two things, and the answer to both is no."

"Oh _come on_, you don't even know what I was going to say!" Back to pouting. He did, Spencer had to admit, do it rather well.

"Yeah I do, Brendon, and the answer _is no_."

Brendon slumped. "Jerk," he said.

"I cannot fucking believe you are over a hundred years old, and yet you act like you're still _five_." Spencer rolled his eyes.

"I do _not_ act like I'm five, jackass," Brendon returned.

Spencer held up a finger. "You fling insults just to be petty, and they're not even _good_ insults." He added a second finger. "You think bleeding is funny."

"It _is_, sometimes," Brendon protested. Spencer glared at him.

"You don't share," he said, raising a third finger.

"Oh come on, I _do_ share. What about that guy last night, and those tourists we kept for a week? I let you have all the best ones."

"After you'd tasted them," Spencer reminded him.

"I still _shared_."

"I am not fucking arguing this with you." Spencer let his hand drop. "You have a fucking dolls' house, okay? You are five."

"That's _not for me_," Brendon started, and opened his mouth to continue. Spencer was about to just get up and walk out, find somewhere _quiet_, when he saw Brendon freeze, mouth open, eyes widening by the second.

"What?" he asked.

"Shit." Brendon shut his mouth and curled inwards a little. Spencer's brow furrowed as he watched.

"That didn't exactly answer anything," he pointed out.

"_Fuck_." Brendon was curling further inwards by the second.

"Nope, that didn't either." Spencer regarded him. "Brendon, what the fuck is going on? Why are you all – _what_?"

Brendon looked up. His eyes were wild, and he seemed to look almost through Spencer. "He's here."

"Who's here?"

"My fucking _sire_, Spencer, _he's here_. Fuck."

"How do you even know that?" Spencer kept watching him. He hadn't seen him look this upset since – he'd _never_ seen him look this upset.

"You always know where I am, right?"

"Yeah," he answered, slow.

"_Well then_. It only works if you're close, but I can – fuck, Spence, this is bad."

"Why is it bad? I'd kind of like to meet the guy, if he sired you." Spencer shrugged. _Must be the most tolerant sire ever._

"No, you don't."

"Why? Is he creepily nice? Does he never share? Does he go around with a stake and a cross and say 'Begone, foul demons of the night!' a lot?"

"I share, okay!"

"What the fuck, that wasn't what I _said_."

"You _implied_ –"

"Don't change the fucking subject, Brendon, why do I not want to meet your sire?"

"He kind of hates me, and I kind of burned him, and doesn't that usually kill us? So uh, he's going to be pissed."

"Wait, you _burned_ him? What the fuck for?"

"He killed one of my girls," Brendon said, nearly too quiet for Spencer to hear.

"What, your – oh. So you _burned him_?"

Brendon stared. "_Yes_ so I burned him. Rule number one of my house, you do not kill the girls. I take them _back_, and they are safe. That's _the rule_."

"You are so fucked up, Brendon."

"What the fuck ever, just remember the fucking rule, alright?"

"I _got it_, it was like, the third thing you told me, after here are my teeth and this is what to do with yours." Spencer stood. "You're still fucked up. I'm going to go find somewhere to read."

"But my _sire is here_."

Spencer rolled his eyes. "So avoid him. Come on, we have lackeys, it won't be too hard to hide until he's gone, right?"

Brendon squinted slightly at him. "You're thinking about finding him."

"What the fuck, that Anne Rice mind-reading shit doesn't work, you know that."

"I don't need to read your fucking mind, Spencer, it's written all over your _face_. Just, don't go find him, okay?"

"Wouldn't know where to start anyway," Spencer admitted. "I don't even know his name, how many fucking vampires are there in this town?"

"No idea. Less, with the Slayer around, I think." Brendon paused. "And his name's William." He looked at Spencer, looked hard. "Don't go looking for him, Spence. Please?"

Spencer didn't say anything.

*

"Okay," Jon said, examining the ceiling, "I think we're done with the quarterstaff."

Ryan's face loomed into his field of vision. "Are you sure? 'Cause I could knock you on your ass again if you like."

"Very funny. Also, somebody at some point burned the ceiling here then painted over it. Huh." He sat up, levering by the palms. "You want to go with the crossbow next?"

"Sure. I have two, you want the wood or the metal? I kind of, uh, improved both."

"Okay. Show me what you can do with the metal," Jon suggested, dusting his hands off and digging around in a box for some bolts. "Here," he handed three over. Ryan raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, are you sure you want me doing this in here?" He glanced around at the stuff spilling from every box, some of it where it should be, most of it in haphazard piles.

"No, okay, you're right. We should, uh – I kind of planned on having the spare room as a training room, but it's yours now so." Jon thought for a moment. "Which reminds me, you'll want an actual bed tonight, right?"

Ryan shrugged. "I really don't mind the couch. It's a lot comfier than a sleeping bag on the floor."

"Okay. But. _I_ want you to have an actual bed, so we're going to need to put one in. You want to leave the training for today, go furniture shopping?"

Ryan considered it, weighing the crossbow in his hand. "Okay then," he said at last, and Jon grabbed his keys on the way out.

Ryan didn't really seem interested in getting a particularly nice bed, just something he could sleep on. Jon kept dragging him over to the soft mattresses, the wrought-iron headboards, and eventually Ryan said he'd agree with whatever the hell Jon wanted to get, it was his money anyway. At which he'd blushed and closed his mouth, turning away.

"It's okay," Jon had said, about eight times, and after each one Ryan shrugged. He carried the bed from Jon's car, setting it down inside the spare room like it didn't weigh more than two men could comfortably carry. He went back to the car for the mattress, while Jon brought in the light stuff. "You can pay me in heavy lifting," Jon joked, cautiously.

"Look, if you want me to, I'll –"

"Ryan," Jon interrupted, "you don't owe me anything. Seriously, don't worry about it. This is your home now, okay?"

Ryan tipped the mattress and moved it into place on the frame. "Okay. And th-"

"If you thank me _one more time_," Jon pointed a pillow at him threateningly. Ryan took it, fitting the cover over it.

"I mean it, though," he said, quiet. He grabbed the second pillow and pulled the cover on, dropping them onto the empty bags and unfolding the sheet. "Gimme a hand?"

"Sure." Jon took the other end, and they shook it out, standing one either side of the bed. "And, you're welcome."

Ryan offered him a tight smile, and Jon figured, okay, it was a start.

The sun went down after dinner, and Ryan hooked a bag over his shoulder. "See you after patrol," he called from the front door.

"Okay. We can watch the late-night monster movie if you want, laugh at the costumes," Jon called back.

"Alright." The door closed behind Ryan, and Jon went back to the diaries.

He wrote for a few more minutes, recounting the training session from that afternoon, and then leaned back, looking around at all the boxes. He thought about unpacking some more. He thought about doing the dishes. He thought about setting up Ryan's room, and smiled, and got up.

The front door opened and closed two hours later, just as Jon was putting the finishing touches to the wall padding. "Jon?" Ryan called.

"In your room. Come look." Jon tried, for the seventh time, to move the weapons chest against the wall, but it wouldn't budge. Ryan appeared in the doorway, opened his mouth to say something, and stopped. He blinked, once, twice. "Here," Jon said, "can you move this chest against the wall?"

Ryan bent down and shifted it without really looking. It slid easily into place. "Jon, I –"

"Pretty cool, huh?" Jon looked proudly at the padded dartboard, the studded chest, the wall mountings and sheaths. "I cleaned up a couple of your swords, they were rusty. Or, I think that was rust." Ryan started to speak, but Jon held a hand up. "For my peace of mind, tell me it was rust."

Ryan shut his mouth and nodded. "That was rust, Jon."

"Good. And uh, yeah, you can practice crossbow and stuff with the dartboard, and everything's in here," he opened the lid of the chest, "with like, handiest things on top and stuff like bear traps and maces at the bottom. And I had a ton of holy water," he showed Ryan the pouches in the lining of the lid, rows and rows of bottles adorned with crosses.

Ryan sat on the edge of the bed, slowly. "I don't know what to say," he said, staring at the chest. "I – thank you, Jon."

"Hey. 'S what I'm here for, right? Or, okay, I'm not actually here to polish your weapons, but –"

"You polished them?"

"Some of them, yeah. And uh, the ones that came from the Council, I – I brought some with me. So. They're yours, obviously."

Ryan just blinked. Jon rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "You're my Slayer, Ryan, you have to have the best. Else we all die," he tried a smile. Ryan looked up and matched it.

"Not so much tonight," he said. "I have to talk to you about patrol."

"Okay?" Jon perched on the bed, facing him.

"There was nothing," Ryan said. "I mean, _nothing_. No vampires, no demons, not even humans mugging or anything. _Nothing_. I haven't seen the city this quiet since – it's like Halloween, only even quieter."

Jon frowned. "That's weird. There's nothing in any of my calendars suggests tonight's anything special. The moon's not full, no regular rituals, nothing like that. Huh."

"Yeah. So. I'm thinking, either it's a quiet night, or something big's about to go down."

"Your Slayer sense is tingling?" Jon asked. Ryan scrunched half his face incredulously to look at him. "Okay, never mind. What do you think, see what happens tomorrow? I'll do some research, see if I missed anything – maybe it's something that's not supposed to happen yet but somebody calculated wrong. It happens. I'll look."

"Good. If it's quiet tomorrow, I'll check more of the usual places. I mean, I tried _everywhere_ tonight."

"Maybe not everywhere," Jon said, thoughtful. "If it's still quiet tomorrow, I know a place we could maybe get some answers. Don't want to go without a really good reason, though."

Ryan tilted his head quizzically.

"Like I said. Tomorrow. You get some sleep, I'll do the book thing." Jon stood up, already trying to work out where the hell he'd put the volume on calculating prophesies in the area, and the works on demonic rituals. Were they with the boxes of photographs or the spare toilet rolls?

"Okay. G'night."

"Yeah. 'Night." Jon made his way downstairs, wondering if he had a good chance of finding all three volumes of the rituals books in one place. He figured he probably didn't, and resigned himself to half a night of searching and the rest of it reading.

*

Under the city, almost everything slept. And almost everything dreamed.

*

"Okay," Ryan said when he got back from patrol the next night, "there is _nothing out there_. Seriously. It's like even the people decided to stay in."

"In _Vegas_?" Jon asked, eyes round.

"Exactly. Something is fucking going on. You said you knew a place we could get some answers?"

Jon looked at him. "You have to promise me you won't start anything when we get there."

Ryan narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Why would I start anything when we get there?"

"Just, promise me. Okay?"

Ryan hesitated.

"Trust me, Ryan, and promise."

"Alright, okay, I promise I won't start anything. Unless like, we're attacked."

"Yes, but then it wouldn't be _you_ starting it, and besides, we won't get attacked. Just, just trust me on this."

"Well." Ryan slipped an extra knife into his pocket, blade sheathed. "Alright."

Jon took him close to the bright lights. They parked not far from the Strip, lit up like a beacon, and Ryan followed him down a few twisting alleys until he realised he hadn't been in this part of town before. It was unusually dark, so near the light.

Jon knocked on what looked like just a patch of wall, but when it smoothly slid open to reveal a low corridor, Ryan figured it must, in fact, be a door. A hidden door, in a wall. He followed Jon through it, registering the light that didn't seem to come from anywhere, the way the door slipped shut after them, and the smell. "What _is_ this place?" he whispered.

"Shh, come on." Jon led him further, past doors to the left, some to the right, all of them closed and unmarked and Ryan kind of hoped Jon knew where he was going. At last, they stopped at one, and Jon rapped on it five times in quick succession, paused, and knocked twice.

The door was opened from the inside, by what looked like a man so old and withered he was bent double. The man nodded at Jon, who nodded back and pulled Ryan into the room after him.

It was a bar. The walls must have been soundproofed; the corridor was silent, but music played in here from a neon jukebox in a corner. Figures hunched over small tables and in booths – figures that looked kind of familiar.

Ryan yanked Jon back and hissed, "You brought me to a _demon bar_?"

"You promised," Jon whispered.

"That was before I knew I'd be coming to a _demon bar_. Shit, at least I know where they've all been." One lurched past him, and Ryan felt for the knife in his pocket. Jon's hand closed over his wrist.

"Don't," he warned, low. "Just trust me. These are the good kind of demon."

Ryan blinked. "There's a good kind of demon?"

"Yes, and keep your voice down. Come on. I know the owner."

"Wait. Wait." Jon had turned away, but Ryan pulled him back sharply. "You _know demons_?"

Jon carefully extracted his arm. "That fucking hurt, Ryan, and like I said. They're the good kind of demon. Just, follow me and _don't start anything_."

Ryan muttered something about weapons chests and false pretences, but didn't leave Jon's side as he sidled up to the bar. A demon with a green face accentuated by red horns beamed at him. "Jonathan!" he said, jovial and slightly guttural. "What can I –" The demon saw Ryan, and his face changed. "You brought the Slayer to my bar?" he hissed at Jon.

"That's what he said," Jon jerked his head to indicate Ryan, who glared at his shoulder. "Bark, you know I'm a Watcher, relax. He promised he'd behave."

"He better had," Bark threw at Ryan, who clenched one palm around the knife in his pocket. "He's armed," Bark added to Jon.

"He's always armed. Seriously, he's with me."

Bark didn't look too happy, but nodded anyway. "Alright. I trust you, of course, Jonathan. So, what brings you here with your … charge?" He edged away slightly from Ryan, who ran the pad of his thumb over the blade release catch.

Jon put one hand on Ryan's arm warningly. "Can we talk? Somewhere private?"

Bark gave a short nod and led them to a door behind the bar. The three of them crowded into a tiny room, housing a table and six chairs.

"Let me guess," Jon smiled, "poker nights."

"Well, this is Vegas," Bark said, sheepish. Ryan still had one hand on his knife. "Now, what can I do for you, Jonathan?"

Jon turned to Ryan. "Over to you. And whatever you do, don't threaten him. Every demon in this bar is harmless, most of all him." Ryan looked at Bark.

"Vegetarian," Bark clarified. "To us, looking like this is just, contours. We're not your kill-and-destroy kind of demons." He shuddered. "Can't be having with that kind of clientele."

"You still don't like the Slayer," Ryan pointed out.

"Yes, well, Slayers tend to kill anything that _looks_ like it might be evil and not ask if it really _is_. We've learned to get edgy."

Jon sighed. "I've known Bark since we were kids. He can help us. Just, take your hand off your knife, okay?"

Bark looked startled, but Ryan relaxed his grip. "Okay. But you're explaining later. And it had better be good." He turned to Bark. "The last two nights, I've been out on patrol and there hasn't been anything. No vampires, no demons – nothing. Know anything about that?"

Bark sat down, slowly. "All I know is rumours, nothing for definite. I don't run with – with _that sort_," he mouthed, barely any sound, glancing at Jon worriedly.

"Rumours are a good place to start," Jon told him, reassurance. He sat in the chair next to him. Ryan stayed standing. "Just tell us what you heard."

"Well, I've heard talk of unrest. Felt it myself, you know, just – feeling like something's about to happen, something big. Something not good."

"Well _that_ isn't vague," Ryan rolled his eyes. Jon shushed him.

"I told you, this is just what I heard. But they say there's – someone's come to town," he looked at Jon. "I wouldn't say for _sure_ it's him, nobody says a name or even – but the way they talk." He stopped.

"What?" Jon asked, leaning forwards.

"Beckett," Bark whispered. Jon's eyes widened.

"Shit, are you sure?"

"No, Jonathan, I am definitely _not_ sure. But it could be. And rumour has it, he isn't here for the sights."

Ryan looked from one to the other, registering the matching horrified expressions. "Who's Beckett?" he asked, finally.

Jon grimaced. "A vampire. Originally English, came to America a couple centuries ago, right when everything was getting established. He funded a few towns, managed not to get thrown out in the war, probably because he owned so much land. He's travelled. A lot."

"We met him in Chicago," Bark added. "An experience I don't really want to repeat."

"Me either," Jon agreed.

"Wait, _wait_, you're from Chicago?" Ryan asked. Bark shrugged.

"I'm from all over. Grew up in Chicago, partly. That's where I met this guy." He slung an arm over Jon's shoulders. "Best human I ever met, is Jonathan Walker. We were just kids, but he was the first human who wasn't afraid of me."

Jon shrugged. "I thought at first you were wearing a cool Halloween mask." He turned to Ryan. "That's how I got trained, someone from the Watcher's Council was keeping tabs on Bark's family. They saw me with him, asked me a whole lot of questions and shit, talked to my parents, and next thing I know, I'm at school in England learning about vampires."

"Oh." Ryan looked at Bark again. "You're really harmless?"

"More than some humans," Bark nodded.

"Okay." Ryan rubbed at his temples. "Okay. So you guys are friends, there are good demons, and you've met this vampire Beckett. Am I keeping up?"

"That's my Slayer," Jon beamed at him. Ryan rolled his eyes, but kind of smiled. Jon turned back to Bark. "Keep your ears open, okay? Call me if you hear anything."

"I will. And – Slayer? Good luck."

"Thanks." Ryan led the way back to the corridor, and out into the alley. "So," he turned to Jon when they hit fresh air, "you know demons."

"The good kind," Jon reminded him.

"I know. I'm just – demons, Jon."

"The _good kind_." Jon made as if to pat his arm. "You'll get used to it. Bark can be useful sometimes, he hears things."

"Like about that Beckett guy? Yeah, real useful."

A voice came from the darkness behind them, silky and rich. "Aww, old Barky talked about me? How sweet he remembered."

Jon whirled around. Ryan already had his stake in his hand. "You," Jon said.

The vampire was tall, long lanky limbs, and wore a bowler hat that he tipped to them. "Is that all the welcome I get, Walker?"

"I could give you a better one," Ryan growled, weighing the stake in his hand. Beckett turned to him.

"I bet you could," he said, one eyebrow raised. "Wouldn't do you any good, I'm afraid. I hear a new Slayer gets called when the old one dies," he continued to Jon. "I wonder if you'd be assigned to train them. Oh – that's right, how rude of me." He'd turned back to Ryan. "Here I am, meeting the one and only Slayer, and not even telling you what an honour it is to be in the presence of such … greatness." He swept the hat off his head and bowed low. Ryan surged forward and aimed the stake, but Beckett's hand came out _fast_ and closed over his wrist. "Now, now, Slayer, we have to play nicely," he twisted, the stake fell to the ground and a loud crack echoed in the alley, "or bones get broken."

Ryan screwed his eyes up against the rush of hormones, numbness blossoming through his forearm. He knew it wouldn't last long. He brought his other hand around to connect with the side of Beckett's head; the punch was blocked, and Beckett twisted Ryan's wrist slowly, spraining it inch by inch.

"Hasn't our dear Walker taught you _any_ manners, Slayer?" Beckett sneared. There was the sound and movement of a kick, and Ryan heard Jon grunt with pain. Beckett tutted. "I'm disappointed in you."

He let go of Ryan's wrists and stepped back into the shadows. "I'll see you again," he said as he melted into the darkness. "You know where I can find what I want. And I think," he paused, on the brink of gone, "yes, I do believe I am going to kill you both." The last thing Ryan saw was Beckett's smile, and then he was gone.

He felt something touch his shoulder and whirled around. Jon was clutching his side. "Are you okay?"

"Arm," Ryan said through gritted teeth. The pain had begun to stab at the edges, and he didn't want to look.

"I'll get us to the hospital, come on." Jon bent to pick the fallen stake up, wincing, and put one arm gingerly around Ryan's shoulders to guide him towards the car.

They'd barely gone three steps when Ryan's back tensed. "Jon," he whispered, "Jon, there's another vampire."

"Can you run?" Jon whispered back.

"Don't," a voice from up ahead of them said. "I hate running after people." A shape emerged from the shadows; shorter than Beckett, and looked younger.

"Look, I'm kind of in a hurry right now," Ryan could barely open his teeth, sharp pain blooming in his arm, a dull throb in his left wrist, "so let's make this quick, okay? We fight, you die, everything ends happy."

The vampire wrinkled its nose. "Doesn't end happy for me. But I'm not here for that. I'm here to – hey, you want help with that?" It stepped closer, and Ryan tensed as it grabbed for his arm, movements just too fast to see; there was a crack, the vampire stepped away again, and Ryan's arm didn't hurt quite so much. "So yeah, like I was saying, I'm not here to fight. I want to help you kill William."

"Who's William?" Jon asked. Ryan carefully extended his right elbow; the bone was snapped back into place. It would heal.

"The dude who just broke your arm," the vampire waved a hand down the alley.

"You mean Beckett?" Jon asked. Ryan flexed his fingers. His other wrist still hurt like hell.

"Yeah, I mean Beckett. I want to help you kill him, because fuck knows I can't seem to do it on my own." It looked at Ryan. "You okay now?"

"Yeah." Ryan looked at it, eyes narrowed. "Why aren't I killing you?"

"I just fixed your _arm_, dude. I'm here to _help_ you. And by the way, you're welcome. Does nobody get taught manners any more?"

"What is it with vampires and manners?" Ryan muttered, closing his hand around the stake.

"Hey, hey, we may be ruthless killers, but at least we're _polite_. How do you do, my name's Brendon, it's nice to meet you at last, thanks for raising my lackey turnover rate, oh, and you're welcome for not killing you."

Ryan snorted. "I could so take you."

"Your _arm_ was _broken_. You were white, it was kind of hot."

Ryan stared at him in disbelief.

"Okay, look, whatever, you said you wanted to help us? How about letting us get to the hospital and coming back tomorrow, and what do you mean, lackey turnover rate?" Jon asked.

"He keeps killing my lackeys," Brendon tilted his head at Ryan, and though Ryan had never heard a vampire whine before, he thought he might have heard it now.

"They're your lackeys?" Ryan raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, and you keep _killing them_. It's really impolite, Slayer."

"You keep _sending them after me_. If you think that's polite, you have a really fucked up moral compass. Oh wait," Ryan's voice threaded sarcasm into the air, "you kill people. I guess you already do."

"Whatever, Ryan. Just, okay, meet me here tomorrow night, but if William shows up I'm gone and you've never heard of me. Okay?"

Ryan paused. "How do you know my name?"

Brendon stopped. "Uh. You said it?"

"No he didn't," Jon spoke up, "and neither did I."

"Well, I mean," Brendon attempted a relaxed stance, "you're the _Slayer_, everybody –"

"- knows me as the Slayer, not by my name," Ryan finished for him.

Brendon deflated. "Well, I guess I fucked _that_ up," he muttered, and moved too quickly to see; there was a split second where all Ryan saw was Jon's face, his mouth open and his eyes wide, shouting something, and everything stopped.

When he came to, Brendon was sitting on a couch on the other side of a room. The walls had tasteful paintings hanging at regular intervals, and nearly everything was either white, blue or green. It was a bit like being inside a Polo mint, Ryan thought as he waited for the world to align.

"Oh good, you're awake," Brendon said as Ryan started to sit up. "Sorry about that whole knocking you out thing. I didn't want to have to do that, but it wasn't – _dammit_, I wasn't supposed to say your name. I'm not meant to know you."

"You don't," Ryan said. His head was pounding.

"No, but I do." The voice was familiar, and it came from the doorway. Ryan looked up and froze.

"Spence – but – you're dead," he breathed, soundless.

"Yeah." Spencer walked into the room, and it was the way he'd always walked, only now it had more slink in it. "Technically, the term is _un_dead, but dead's good enough."

Ryan shrank back into the couch cushions. "You're not Spencer," he whispered. "You're just the thing that killed him."

"Actually," Brendon piped up, "I'm the thing that killed him. Knew as soon as I saw him he'd be good." Brendon regarded Spencer with a mix of pride, admiration and something else, something smoky. Ryan looked away.

"Why did you bring me here?" He didn't even know which one he was asking. "Spence, you died, I – it was my fault, should have told you, kept you safer –"

"Oh, isn't this _sweet_?" Brendon exclaimed. "See Spencer, I told you it'd be a touching reunion."

"Shut up, Brendon." Spencer had his eyes fixed on Ryan's, moving closer. "It wasn't your fault, Ryan. I know you couldn't tell me, you were protecting me."

"I thought I was," Ryan whispered. "Then you – and then my parents, and I couldn't keep them safe either. Then my _Watcher_ and – fuck, where's Jon? What have you done with him?"

"He's safe. I dropped him off at the hospital, he had a fractured rib. Spencer got you the ice for your wrist." Brendon indicated a small ice bag on the glass table between them. "You've been out for a while. Guess you needed the sleep." A smile spread over his jaw, showing the glint of teeth. "And Spencer killed your parents."

Spencer rounded on Brendon. "Don't you think that was something _I_ should have told him?" he hissed. Ryan stood, abrupt.

"You killed my fucking parents?" His voice was a low growl.

"Of _course_ I killed your fucking parents, Ry," Spencer answered in the mirror of Ryan's tone. "After the way they treated you? I wanted to do it a long time before I became a vampire."

Ryan swung his right arm, which had pretty much healed by that point. The punch connected, hard on Spencer's jaw.

"I should have brought popcorn!" Brendon cried. They ignored him.

"Want to take another swing, Ry?" Spencer asked, massaging his mouth. "Make me bleed? Make me fight back, is that what you want?"

Ryan punched him again, this time a solid connect with his nose. Spencer reeled, but steadied. Ryan punched again, hitting his mouth. Spencer's lip burst, and he brought a hand up to press against the well of blood.

"How long have you wanted to do that, Ry? Since I died? Or did you always know it was me who could sneak in and kill them in their sleep? Did you know I watched you sleep after I'd done it? Did you wake up?"

"You never told me that," Brendon said. Spencer didn't take his eyes off Ryan's.

"I didn't know," Ryan gritted his teeth, "and I will fucking kill you. You are not Spencer Smith."

Spencer smiled. "I know." He leaned in, a smooth movement. Ryan didn't lean back. "Want to not be Ryan Ross?" Spencer murmured.

Ryan swung with his left hand this time, catching Spencer on his ear and cheek. He staggered back, and Ryan quickly felt for his stake.

"We took your weapons away," Brendon told him, sounding amused. "And please don't kill Spencer, Ryan. That goes for you too, Spence, remember. We need him."

"You mean _you_ need him." Spencer was watching Ryan hungrily. Ryan flinched.

"I will fucking kill you," he promised, but he lowered his fist.

Brendon clapped his hands together, the sound loud and sudden. "Alright, now you two have made up, let's get talking about the little problem of the impending apocalypse."

Ryan turned to him, sharp. "Apocalypse?"

"Yeah. You know, tear in the fabric of reality which leads to a Hell dimension, planet overrun by demons, everybody dies. I'm assuming you don't want that to happen."

"I didn't know it was _going_ to, and you're right, I don't."

"Nobody does know, except William. Beckett, the guy with the arm –"

"Thank you, I remember who William is," Ryan snapped.

"Right." Brendon rolled his eyes. "God, Slayers are pissy. Anyway, William's, uh, my sire. We're kind of connected. And he's in town, and he's looking to end the world, and I don't want him to do that."

"Why?" Ryan asked. "I thought you'd like the part where demons kill everybody."

"Well, _yeah_, I like that part," Brendon nodded. "Sounds like fun times. Only, to get the fabric of reality to tear and the Hell beasties into the world, someone has to sacrifice the one who killed them."

Ryan raised an eyebrow.

"I see you have spotted the logistical issue there," Brendon nodded. "And it can't just be like, a vampire killing a human and making them a vampire, it has to be a vampire who killed the vampire who does the ritual. It – yeah, that's why it's never been done before."

"And William … what, is extra dead?"

"I kind of, uh. Killed him. A couple years ago. Or at least, I _thought_ I had, and I must have done _something_ because he knows about this ritual thing – always used to talk about it, like trying to find loopholes or something so he could do it, whoever opens the tear thing is made king of the demons or whatever – and I guess he must have found out I'm here."

"Okay, but why did you kill him?" One thing at a time, Ryan thought.

"He killed one of Brendon's girls," Spencer spoke up. Brendon made an exasperated noise.

"The _first rule_ –"

"I know, I know, nobody touches the girls." Spencer rolled his eyes. "He kidnaps kids," he told Ryan, "always a girl who's I don't know, four? Five? Takes her early in the morning, brings her back here and they play tea party and shit all fucking day. He has a dolls' house and those pink pony things and teddy bears' picnic. Then come sundown, he takes the girl back to her parents. And that's it."

Ryan looked at Brendon. "Seriously? You kidnap girls and then _play with them_?"

"I don't _kidnap_ them, they come with me," Brendon protested. "They remind me of my sister. Hey, look, we all have someone to miss, right?"

"I _did_," Ryan muttered, shooting a look at Spencer.

"Yeah, so, _anyway_," Brendon continued, "nobody fucking touches my girls. Then one time, William comes in and kills this girl, right in front of me, just because he's pissed or bored or _an asshole_, or all three. So I set him on fire."

Ryan blinked. "Okay, that kind of makes sense. In that I'd have done the same. Plan to, actually."

Brendon shook his head. "Doesn't work. Or anyway, he's still around, so it can't have. I fucking swear, he was a pile of fucking dust when I left. Hence, reality tear thing might actually work. Which would be fun, only I'd have to _die_ to make the tear and I don't want to die."

"You're already dead," Ryan pointed out.

"Alright, I don't want to die any more than I already have," Brendon amended. "Besides, even if Hell came and stayed, William would still have fucking won. _And_ he'd be king. Fucked if I'm letting him be anything but more dust, and _staying_ dust this time."

"And you need me because …" Ryan left the sentence hanging.

"You're the _Slayer_," Brendon sighed, as if explaining something very simple. "I want to kill a _vampire_. Do the fucking math, Ross."

"Give me one good reason not to kill you right now," Ryan said.

"Oh, that's easy. Spencer. He's one very good reason not to kill me right now." Brendon smirked.

"What if I kill Spencer first?"

"Fuck, don't kill Spencer." The smirk dropped. "Seriously, okay, he's the only one I've talked to in the last hundred fucking years who doesn't make me want to _scream_ and rip their throat out."

"But you did rip his throat out," Ryan reminded him.

"Actually, he didn't bite me on the neck," Spencer coughed.

"Spence!" Brendon's hands waved in an expansive gesture. "We agreed, that's between you, me and the back seat of your car."

"You bit me on the _wrist_," Spencer rolled his eyes.

"And the chest," Brendon muttered.

"Yeah, Brendon? That was after I was dead."

"Oh yeah." Brendon smiled, fond. Ryan repressed, with difficulty, the urge to pummel him. It looked like Spencer was doing the same.

"It isn't what you think," Spencer said to Ryan, who stared at him.

"I can't believe you just said that to me," he shook his head. "I don't fucking _care_ what it is. I still haven't heard a good reason you're not both dust right this second."

"William would kill you," Brendon spoke up. "I mean, if you killed me before he – y'know, got the chance to. And if you kill Spencer, _I'll_ fucking kill you. I like you, but whatever you fucking do, don't hurt Spence."

Ryan opened his mouth, but closed it again. "Yeah," Spencer half-smiled, "the irony of him saying that isn't lost on me either."

"Look," Brendon sighed, "are you going to help me or not, Ryan? Because, really, your options are limited. Either you help me, or you die, or you die but don't stay dead. Your choice."

"Tell me everything you know about William's plans," was all Ryan said. "And don't you fucking start, I have to stop him anyway," he added, before Brendon could say a word.

*

Jon was sitting up when Ryan cautiously knocked on the partly-open door. He held out a bunch of what looked like long-stemmed yellow daisies. "Brought you these."

Jon smiled. "I'll get one of the nurses to put them in water."

"How are you feeling?" Ryan rested the flowers on the cabinet beside Jon's bed.

"Well, it's a good job hospital gowns don't totally wash me out." He tipped a smile. "Doctors say I have some internal damage. I should be alright, but they're running a couple tests."

"I'm sorry. I should have –"

"Ryan," Jon stopped him, "Beckett had both your arms. This _wasn't your fault_."

"I just," Ryan stopped. "I just never seem to save the people who count," he muttered.

"Everybody counts, Ryan. Hey – you okay? I mean, you look fine, have – you got away, right?"

"Not exactly. Brendon, uh, took me back to his – I don't know, it's like a basement apartment or something."

"Shit, are you –"

"I'm fine. They – they gave me ice for my wrist, let me sleep. I – Spencer, was there. He's, he's a vampire."

"Spencer, wh- wait a second, not the Spencer who died a year ago?"

Ryan nodded. "He killed my parents, too. I guess I, I don't know, I knew it must have been something that could get in, but I didn't – I didn't think it was Spencer."

"Shit, I'm so sorry." Jon made a clumsy movement and winced.

"Hey, don't –" Ryan hovered as Jon settled back, face clearing. "Listen, Brendon knows what Beckett is up to, and he wants me to kill him."

"But – what, why?"

"Long story. But, okay, is there a way for a vampire to die but come back?"

"I'm assuming you mean other than the usual undead way." Jon looked thoughtful.

"Yeah." Ryan watched him. "You know something, right?"

"Possibly. Why?"

"Something to do with Beckett's plans, I'll explain later. Brendon told me where Beckett is, what he's doing, and Jon, he wants to open a portal from this world to Hell, bring it here."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. To do that, though, he has to kill Brendon, and I have to kill Beckett before he can get to him. So do you know something about a way for vampires to die and come back?"

"Oh – right. You remember I told you about how some spells work like poisons?"

"Um, yeah?"

"In the apartment, living room book cabinet, there's one book in there a different colour from the rest."

"I remember," Ryan said, slowly. "It smells like spilled tea."

"Yeah, I nearly had Nigel expelled for that," Jon grimaced. "Anyway, there's something in there about a way for vampires to be invincible. And the – you know the second drawer down in my desk?"

"The one you keep locked?"

"Yes. The key's stuck to the side of the fridge, between it and the wall. Find the bolts in there, use them in the crossbow you did – whatever you did to it. Use those, it'll say everything else in the book. The rest of the stuff in the drawer, take that too."

"Okay. Got it. Thanks. Will you be okay? I – I have to go, stop a vampire bringing about the apocalypse."

"Well, _yeah_, you know where he is?"

"I'm on my way now. Thought I'd see how you're doing first."

"I'll be fine. Should be home in a day or two." Jon waved a hand. "Go. Kill the bad guy. And – Ryan?"

"Yeah?" Ryan was half way to standing, but paused.

"He's not – he isn't your friend any more, he's –"

"I know. I know he isn't."

Jon watched his eyes for a second. "You're going to kill him, aren't you?"

Ryan sighed. Jon reached for his hand, and squeezed it for a moment.

"Come back tomorrow in one piece, you hear?" Jon whispered. Ryan nodded.

"Same to you," he said, and left.

*

The room smelled of desperation, blood, and something flowing and languid. Ryan kicked the door in and stood in the broken frame.

"You're late," Beckett said. He smiled, all teeth. "But I'll forgive you."

Ryan took a step closer. "What, no friendly invitation?"

Beckett chuckled. "You don't need one, Slayer. You're always welcome here."

Ryan shouldered his crossbow. "Somehow I doubt that." He fired.

Beckett dodged. "Tsk, now Slayer, you'll have to try harder than that."

Ryan fired again. The bolt stuck in Beckett's chest, inches from his heart.

"_Ow_," he protested, jaw hanging open. "What the – you didn't _reload_."

Ryan fired a third time, but Beckett dodged again and pulled the bolt out of his chest with a wince. "Things have moved on since your day," Ryan told him, moving closer and firing again. The bolt clipped Beckett's shoulder as it passed.

"Bet some things haven't changed," Beckett said, and span fast; his foot just missed connecting with the crossbow. Ryan leaned back, holding it steady, and fired into Beckett's leg.

"You're right," he said, as Beckett surged closer. He dropped the crossbow and, lightning-fast, flicked his wrist; the stake poised up his sleeve shot outwards and he slammed it into Beckett's chest. "Slayers kill vampires. That doesn't change."

Beckett made to say something, raised a hand, and imploded into dust.

Ryan stood over the dust and watched it. The particles began to clump together after a minute, piece by piece, slowly clustering. The clumps joined, and started twisting together, moving upwards, forming shape. Ryan reloaded his crossbow as the dust swirled up further and settled back into the shape of Beckett.

"Can't kill me that easily," he smirked.

Ryan shrugged. "Figured." He fired the crossbow again, this time into Beckett's foot where the last of the dust was settling. "Did you know," Ryan continued, firing another bolt into his leg, dust stirring and breaking apart by the second, "some magic spells work like poisons? I'm not sure how it works, exactly, my Watcher did try to explain but most of it seemed to involve dark shit I don't even _want_ to know how he knows about." He fired three bolts into Beckett's thigh. "Turns out, there's this one thing a vampire can do to be really, actually immortal. Unkillable." He paused, and fired a bolt into Beckett's crotch. "I have to say, I'm impressed you went through all the trials. I hear they cut bits off you." He fired another bolt, this time into Beckett's throat. "But funny thing is, every poison has an antidote. You know what my Watcher knows how to make?"

Beckett gurgled, clutching at his throat.

Ryan fired a bolt into his stomach. "No, go on, guess. It's really easy," he drew out the l sounds.

Beckett tried to grab for him, but Ryan fired a bolt into his arm. "Sorry, wrong answer. The correct answer is _antidote_. Made to specifics and able to pack into crossbow bolts." He fired into Beckett's shoulder. "Amazing inventions, crossbows. Don't you find? I mean, I like to improve mine, make it more efficient, but each to his own. Right?"

Beckett shifted forward, hands shaking and stretching out, fingers flexed.

"William?" Ryan cocked an eyebrow. "Go to hell." He fired the last bolt into Beckett's heart, and stepped back as Beckett crumpled into dust at his feet.

Ryan watched the dust for ten minutes. He scooped it up into five separate bags, sat cross-legged on the floor, and got five small wooden bowls out of his bag. He placed the dust in them, and pulled a book of matches out of his pocket. He shook them out; five, all different colours. He lit the first, and dropped it into the first bowl. The flame glowed blue. Four more lit matches, four more flames; green, red, black, brown. He watched until all the dust had burned.

He gathered the bowls up and put them back in his bag. He reloaded the crossbow and picked his way over the bits of broken door on his way out.

*

"Hey, watch the door," Ryan warned as it almost caught Jon's side. He had one arm around Jon's waist, carefully guiding him inside.

"Thanks." Jon walked slowly over to the couch, sinking onto it. "God, it's good to be home."

"Here." Ryan ducked into the kitchen, emerging with a plate containing two donuts and a slab of chocolate. "You'll be sick of hospital food, right?"

Jon took the plate. "_God_ it's good to be home," he grinned, biting into a donut. "Oh God, _custard-filled_." His eyes rolled back. "How did you _know_?"

"I, uh, I asked Bark," Ryan admitted. "Welcome home," he added.

Jon swallowed his mouthful. "Thank you," he said, smile soft. Ryan blushed. "So, what about Brendon and Spencer? Did you … y'know."

"They, uh. They've disappeared. I got to their place, and all I found was this." He handed Jon a piece of paper.

_Ryan –_

_Don't come looking for me. We'll stay out of your way. I'm sorry._

_Spencer._

"Oh," Jon said, handing it back.

"He's not. Sorry, that is," Ryan folded the note. "He was going to kill me. But I guess, I don't know. He has Spencer's memories, he knows it's what – it's what Spencer would say."

"Ryan –"

"I'm okay. Hey." He ducked back into the kitchen and returned with his own plate. "I have donuts too."

"But they're not as good as _my_ donuts," Jon said, trying out a smile.

"Maybe they are, maybe they aren't," Ryan replied. Jon noticed that as he sat down, Ryan put the note in his pocket, but Jon just asked him how the antidote had worked out, so he could get it down in the diary, and made a mental note not to mention it again.

Ryan slept soundly that night, better than he had in years. And for once, he didn't dream about Spencer. In the morning, he took the note out of his pocket, and sat, staring at it for a minute.

He opened the window. A breeze was picking up.

Ryan put his hand out of the window and let go. The note sailed up and out into the air. He watched it until it disappeared, and whispered a soundless, "Goodbye." Then he closed the window and went to see if Jon had started making breakfast yet.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [From the Watcher's Diaries, 1765](https://archiveofourown.org/works/68829) by [fizzyblogic (phizzle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/fizzyblogic)




End file.
